


The Sonata of Flames

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Series: Sinful notes of decadence [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Incest, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Open Relationships, Polyamory, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Trust Nobody, Uncle/Nephew Incest, glorious references to canon, mairon is a lying liar who lies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 01:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: It's a very well kept secret that Mairon Aulendil, known to some as a dilligent student at the medical department of the University of United Beleriand and a successful paid escort is, in fact, neither.In other news, Eönwë is confused and Mildly Disturbed, Melkor is oblivious and Very Attractive, there's a Noldorin crime syndicate involved in it somehow and Mairon is going to have his hands full.(Sequel to "The quality of dissonance", makes no sense as a standalone.)





	The Sonata of Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the second installment of the "Sinful Notes of Decadence" series! Just beware, this series makes no sense without reading "The quality of dissonance" first since it's a direct continuation from where that one left off.   
> Have some fun from Mairon's perspective this time and let me know if it's enjoyable :)   
> Warnings: same as before, this story contains uncle/nephew incest and is endgame Mairon/Melkor/Eönwë.

It's a very well kept secret that Mairon Aulendil, known to some as a dilligent student at the medical department of the University of United Beleriand and a successful paid escort is, in fact, neither. 

While he had never in his life been the latter and this entire part of his persona is completely forged, he can at least own up to having been the former. He did, in fact, earn his double Ph.D. in Psychopathology and Forensic Psychiatry at UniBel almost ten years ago at the tender age of fourteen as the youngest graduate of the century.

Instead of becoming a world-class specialist in mental disorders, however, Mairon took his genius-level IQ elsewhere: he joined the Valinorean Investigation Agency, or VIA, to put his intellect to good use first as an instructor and consultant on criminal psychology and related studies, then as a highly successful field agent, codename: Gorthaur. He spent the next seven years of his life with the Agency and he acclaimed quite a renown. His list of accomplishments was long before he retired at twenty-one. The last operation he led to a successful conclusion was an undercover mission in Númenor where he collected intel and finally helped take out the drug-dealing overlord, Ar-Pharazôn. Unfortunately, he got too close to the man over the sixteen months in his ranks. When one of Ar-Pharazôn's lieutenants got away, Mairon became compromised. Despite his talents and numerous contacts, he wasn't allowed to continue as he was. They gave him a tough choice. It was either back to his old job as instructor – or out. So he retired.

Of course, that didn't mean he decided to lead a peaceful life out in the suburbs all of a sudden. No; Mairon knew he was burned as a VIA agent, but that didn't stop him from getting some semblance of his old job back. With substantial financial help from his father, he founded his own investigation agency in Mithrim and became a private detective or sometimes, a ”spy for hire”.

He called it SAURON. While the dark lord from the Third Age was not necessarily a good guy, he was quite legendary for his all-seeing gaze which restlessly watched the enemies of his rule and instigated fear in the bravest of men. It makes for a good logo besides, very nice to put on business cards. His business was – is – thriving, rightfully so because he is just that good at his job.

Of course, everything had to go wrong the moment he decided to take the same assignment from two clients simultaneously without letting either know about the other. Curumo – his younger brother who helps him out as part-time secretary when he's not otherwise swamped with school work - told him it was a bad idea. Mairon is not great at listening to other people's advice, however, he's never been a good follower.

The first client came on a beautiful frosty morning late last winter. When Mairon arrived in the office, the man was already waiting. Tall to a degree that made him intimidating, dark-skinned and dark-haired, dressed immaculately in a pristine black suit with a black shirt and a silvery tie, with an aura that practically screamed _criminal_. Elven, but it was impossible to tell more of his origin either from his looks or from the way he spoke. He didn't actually introduce himself and Mairon used the fake identity he created especially for his work in SAURON; he had to pull some favours with his old contacts in the VIA to make the name Annatar Tevildo real enough, but it was worth the effort. He gave his alter ego Vanyarin origins, a special ops training with the United Beleriand Military Forces and a good education in the Tirion Police Academy. The identity served him so well since the first time he got it, his real name will probably never be connected to SAURON.

'I want you to get close to this man,' the client said and handed him a folder which contained a professional-looking file on famous musician and composer, Melkor Bauglir. There were multiple photos in there, some candid and many which looked private; newspaper clippings, including a few reporting the tragic plane crash the target was in recently; and a few good pages of text in bullet points that seemed to detail the things anyone would ever want to know about Mr. Bauglir.

'I need to know everything he does,' the client demanded. 'Who he meets, where he goes, what he eats. No questions asked. Can you do that?'

Mairon didn't mention that he thought the client already appeared to be doing a good job of finding out everything himself. He stated his price, the client accepted and they signed the contract with the names they claimed were theirs. Standard procedure. Mairon very much doubted his client was really called _Mister Pere King_ , but as long as the bi-weekly payments came on time, he didn't care.

Then, almost exactly a month later, the other guy came. This one came in the evening, acted friendly and was dressed casually. He seemed approximately Curumo's age, but he was lither than Mairon's sporty brother. He actually offered a name: Ossë Gaerys, which Mairon knew was fake because his father was in the army with Ossë's and they knew each other.

Not-Ossë also had a file on Melkor Bauglir, albeit a less comprehensive one.

'It's absolutely essential that all of his movements are closely tailed. It's a matter of national security,' he said with a straight face.

Mairon didn't laugh as he asked, 'Why not take it to the feds, then?'

'You can't trust the feds,' Not-Ossë replied, keeping his expression serious.

To this day, Mairon is quite sure the very obvious federal agent telling him federal agents can't be trusted is the funniest scene he has ever witnessed.

Regardless of the hilarity of the situation, however, he took the assignment after just a day devoted to the deliberation of the pros and cons and ignoring Curumo's quips about being greedy. He was already in the process of preparations for the operation for one client; he didn't suppose taking double the money for the effort made him a bad person. If anything, it meant the job was worth much more than he took from either client individually.

At first, it was quite easy. The initial phase of the job was simple information gathering without actually seeing the target. He met people who knew the target and gleaned some intel which wasn't in either folder he had: how the target liked his coffee (black, four or five sugars) and what modern brand of violins he preferred ( _Golden Flower_ from Gondolin and, if he had no choice, Doriath's _Nightingale_ ), how often he went to the gym (sometimes, when he was nervous before a live concert) and how many times a week he took out his trash (seven to ten, depending on the amount of junk food he had that week). He learned the places the target would frequent. Art cafes and opera houses, music shops, concert halls: he had to find a way not to blend in with the crowds who went to such places despite not being interested in art or music at all. Casual conversations provided the biggest challenge during this phase.

Then, come spring, Mairon moved on to observation when his target moved from Valinor where he was evidently recuperating after the plane crash (which was classified, by the way, the public was informed he was in a car accident) at his brother's estate back to Mithrim, his city of residence in Beleriand. Melkor Bauglir turned out to be reclusive and rather boring, to be honest. He didn't seem to have friends and whenever he came out of his apartment building, he went wandering in the nearby park and sometimes dropped by one of the music shops which he usually departed in a hurry. Mairon's weekly reports to his clients during that time weren't particularly informative, so he wasn't surprised when both demanded that he got closer. He intended to, even without their insistence.

It took a lot of time and resources to create the opportunity to meet the target in person. It also required a bit of luck: thanks to Curumo, who befriended Eönwë after they met in an online game, he found out early about Manwë Súlimo's engagement to Varda Elentári. He knew a bit about the target's personality both from the provided information and from his own observations and he was pretty sure when the invitation arrived, Melkor would not want to go to his brother's wedding alone. Thus, he came up with the escort plan. The agency he set up for that end was wholly made up of his own family members and their friends: his brothers Curumo and Aiwendil played the other male escorts, cousin Melian and Mairon's ex-girlfriend Thuringwethil were their female counterparts. The entire operation was based in a luxurious mansion in the suburbs which Mairon bought especially for this reason. The references and advertisements were meticulously planted: Mairon had it done by Curumo, who prides himself on his skills as a hacker. Before it caught the target's eye, the agency was as good as real in the mind of the society.

The problem was, it didn't catch the target's interest almost until it was too late. Mairon was considering dropping the front and obtaining an access to Manwë Súlimo's wedding reception to mingle with the target there, which would set back the whole operation. Thankfully, the target came around and didn't even have to be convinced to pick Mairon out of the profiles he was shown. After that, the plan commenced without a hitch.

Almost three weeks later, Mairon Aulendil is out of his depth for the first time in his life.

'Are you asleep?' Melkor asks, his voice hoarse; it's either with sleep or as a result of the delicious noises he made earlier when Mairon fucked him into a sweet oblivion – for the second time this night. His hair is messy on the pillows and his neck and collarbone are littered with little bruises: evidence of Mairon's passion.

None of the photos contained in the files from the clients, none of the times he'd followed the man as he wandered aimlessly around his neighbourhood could have prepared Mairon for this moment. It hits him like a brick in the face: Melkor is beautiful, every part of him, every physical feat and each of his personality quirks, everything which makes him himself. It's unbearable, it's incomprehensible, but it's also undeniable: Mairon is in love with him.

'I'm not asleep,' he replies softly. His own voice is barely above a whisper. He smiles at Melkor. 'I'm thinking about you,' he admits semi-truthfully.

Melkor laughs. 'Thinking about me? Don't you have enough of me? We're in bed together. I'm probably smothering you,' he jokes, but doesn't move from how he's all but wrapped around Mairon's smaller form. His arms feel warm, even though Melkor's body is naturally cooler than Mairon's.

'Yes, and it doesn't help,' Mairon says. 'It's hard not to think about you when you seem to be everything in my world right now.'

He almost cringes at how cheesy the words came out, but Melkor just chuckles fondly. His breath ruffles Mairon's hair; for a moment, they both savour the comfortable silence interrupted only by their even breathing, before Melkor suddenly sits up.

'What? Is something wrong?' Mairon asks, also rising.

'Something,' Melkor mutters distractedly, 'I need a pen or a, a what, a pencil, anything.'

He gets out of bed and goes straight to his desk where he turns on the lamp. Mairon watches him rummage for something to write. This is familiar like a spectacle he's witnessed many times before: a surge of creativity so powerful Melkor cannot contain it. It's fascinating to watch, not as an investigator but as a psychiatrist. He's quite sure Melkor is suffering from PTSD, but that's not the only mental struggle he battles: the way he becomes completely ignorant of his surroundings when inspiration strikes is consistent with mania, but the bouts of euphoria and elevated activity are not long enough to be considered manic episodes. Indeed, as soon as the most current creative trance is over, the enhanced mood passes and Melkor returns to his calmer, typically reserved and possibly depressive state. There are also no irritable or downright violent outbursts which are commonly associated with mania. This behaviour may actually be the result of his trauma, but if so, it is in a very irregular way.

Mairon would study him more closely if he didn't consider it morally ambiguous at best: after all, he _is_ in love with him.

The creative surge is short this time. It lasts for less than a full hour and, disappointed and somehow confused, Melkor returns to bed after filling but a few pages of his notebook. The older man doesn't say anything as Mairon embraces him, but he allows himself to be cuddled. He really enjoys physical contact, Mairon has noticed; he always sits close to Mairon so that their knees or thighs touch, he likes to brush his hands over someone's shoulder as he passes, he sometimes does things like tickle or poke others when they're close enough for no reason other than to touch them. In bed, he's like a tentacle monster to a degree; even if Mairon wanted to keep his distance, he's not sure he could against Melkor's tendency to wrap all his limbs around him during the night. It's like Mairon is a big teddy bear Melkor cannot stop hugging.

'G'night,' Melkor murmurs into Mairon's arm and kisses it lightly for good measure. Mairon smiles to himself, wondering how in the world he could've gotten himself into such a mess. He's so absolutely fucking screwed.

The morally right thing would be to conclude his cooperation with the clients and to tell Melkor about everything. He knows this. It's a problem, however: Mairon's morality is rather dubious. It's not that he can't tell right from wrong, of course he can. He is not a sociopath or psychopath: he's an expert, he checked to be sure when he was worried and there is nothing wrong with his empathy or his ability to process emotion. It's just that he's not overly concerned with the rules established by society and as such, he doesn't bother with such trivialities. But on the other hand, it's about Melkor and he really, really doesn't want to continue lying to Melkor. He doesn't care about the clients, but his lover is important. He's the first person Mairon thinks he's ever loved. That's how he knows he should come clean.

He also knows he will lose Melkor if – no, not if: when he does.

He doesn't sleep much that night. When the sun begins to come up, Mairon untangles himself from Melkor's embrace and slips out of bed. He takes a shower, dresses into something comfortable and goes to see the dogs. Surprisingly for the hour, he meets Eönwë in the garden.

Even more surprisingly, Eönwë doesn't frown or glare in greeting. Instead, he blushes furiously and tries to walk away, pretending he hasn't noticed him at all.

'I know what you did,' Mairon says after him and smirks when he sees Eönwë's entire form stiffen.

'I'm sure I have no idea-' the younger man tries, but Mairon interrupts him.

'He told me,' he says simply. 'Don't worry. I don't mind.'

'… what?' Eönwë asks, perplexed. He looks at Mairon like he can't really believe what he's hearing.

'I'm not the jealous type,' Mairon informs him. 'He deserves all the love he can get. I am perfectly capable of sharing,' he adds, never mentioning the doubts he has that Melkor will even want him after the revelation he has to reveal. Well, Eönwë doesn't require that knowledge yet. Later, perhaps; Melkor's going to need his nephew more than ever when he realizes Mairon's been deceiving him all along. Fuck, it's going to hurt so much.

Some of what he thinks must show on his face, because Eönwë sighs and tentatively touches his shoulder.

'I won't steal him from you or anything,' he promises.

It startles a chuckle out of Mairon. 'Of course you won't,' he agrees, 'you're a good guy, aren't you?'

'It's not that,' Eönwë replies and shakes his head. 'I would steal him if he'd only let me. But he's stubborn. I mean, I get it. I'm his brother's kid. It's weird. He couldn't be with me, ever, not officially at least. He's convinced himself he's in love with you anyway, so. I guess I'll just back off.'

'You don't have to,' Mairon says. 'I really don't mind. The sharing thing or the incest thing,' he shrugs his shoulders to better show his indifference to the idea of either.

He asked a professor why he is like this, once. Why his mind refuses to process polyamory, infidelity or even incest as something wrong. Of course, he worded it as a hypothetical inquiry, he didn't reveal that it concerned him on a personal level. Still, the professor had no answer anyway. Mairon thinks it's because of how his family works. Both of his parents have had other lovers, despite the fact that they love each other more than anything in the world. His mother's sister was married to some guy, but she didn't even live with him, she just married him to help him out because his parents were total homophobes. He knows of some distant cousins who are much less distant to each other than to him, both in the literal and metaphorical sense. Mairon himself taught his younger brother to kiss when Curumo whined about his lack of skill that was surely the reason he couldn't find a girlfriend. Mother found out and only told him to make sure nobody finds out, because such things aren't societally accepted.

His family is weird, now that he thinks of it.

'So if I go to your bedroom right this instant to kiss him awake, you'll seriously be fine with it?' Eönwë asks, looking at him doubtfully.

Mairon considers it for a minute. Then, he shrugs again. 'May I watch?' He asks. He can't help it. The scene would be so hot; his mind already supplies images of how it could proceed. He'd like to see. Perhaps there is something fundamentally wrong with him after all, perhaps some mechanism responsible for normalcy inside his brain is broken.

Eönwë must think so too. His entire face expresses that perfectly: his widened grey eyes, his frowning brow, his pretty lips which hang open on unsaid words. Mairon resists the urge to laugh. He's quite sure laughter wouldn't earn him any favours from the irritable younger man. Eönwë would consider it mockery and Mairon is far from being in the mood to mock him.

He smiles, instead, attempting to look fairly innocent and almost succeeding in his effort to keep the younger man calm. But Eönwë is not easy to play at all. Once he gets over his initial shock at Mairon's bold suggestion, his eyes narrow in suspicion and his entire posture grows defensive.

'What is your game?' He asks in a low voice which isn't difficult to identify as threatening.

'There's no game,' says Mairon simply. 'I'm in love with Melkor. You are, as well. He is adorably confused about his feelings for you and determined to be certain about his feelings for me. I don't mind sharing him with you. The only piece of the puzzle left is you.'

Eönwë walks away without another word.

Mairon chuckles to himself and continues his trek. He stops by the kennels and takes the dogs out – Draugluin and Carcharoth, as always, but also three others who trust him enough to walk with him without their real master. Oromë said it's rare that any of them would go anywhere with a stranger and Mairon thinks it's exactly why the forester grew fond of him so easily. Or maybe it's simply Mairon's personal charm. He's an easy person to like. He carefully created his persona to be so.

He jogs for a good hour and a half with the dogs around the estate. They bark and jump and chase butterflies, he throws sticks for them to catch and half-heartedly hides behind trees when they return to have him throw again. When he was a child, they had dogs, back in the house in Almaren. It's possibly the only thing he still misses, sometimes, after having so fully dedicated himself to city life: the freedom of morning runs with the dogs under the clear sky, not limited by the borders of a park or garden. He loves civilization with all its undeniable perks, but sometimes, the wilderness calls to him with a powerful wave of nostalgia.

He returns in time to catch Ilmarë taking breakfast alone at the dining room, so he cheerfully joins her. One of the serving staff brings him coffee – they already learned how he takes it, it's impressive, really – and takes his teasing order of “something unhealthy, please surprise me” to eat. Grinning at the eye-roll he receives in reply, Mairon turns to Ilmarë.

She's positively blooming here in the estate. The gauntness of her face and the shyness of her gaze are almost completely gone after just the few days under Manwë and Varda's care. Even dressed in one of Eönwë's sweatshirts and a pair of loose shorts, with her ash-blond hair as messy as her brother's, Ilmarë looks like she's always belonged with the poshest aristocracy of Valinor. She'd make a charming picture in a heavily adorned evening dress. A princess in her own right.

She's as pretty as her brother, Mairon muses as he greets her. Just as pretty, but far more approachable.

'Eönwë says you're fucked in the head,' she informs Mairon with a smirk, letting fall the illusion of her aristocratic aura because she sounds like a commoner. Her accent is unrefined, her wording crude. She's a victim of the foster system and it's painfully obvious, but somehow, it doesn't detract from her roguish charm. Valinor's nobility will stand no chance against her once she learns to talk like them.

'Eönwë says a lot of rude things,' Mairon observes drily. 'I'm sure some of them are even true. But enough about him. What have you been up to?'

'This and that,' says Ilmarë and reaches for what looks to be peach jam which she generously spills all over her waffles. 'I'm supposed to be catching up on my studies. Varda says there's no hurry, but that's only because the wedding's so soon. I tried to get Eönwë to teach me some stuff, you know, languages, maths and all, but he's rubbish at all that. He's an artist, not a scholar. Also he's too busy creeping on Mister Melkor. Anyway, my plan is to start university next year.'

'Oh? What degree are you interested in?' Mairon asks, already impressed. He's pretty sure many girls her age, in her situation, would be content as pretty princesses and wouldn't really care for education. Or not. He's got precious little experience with what women want, after all.

'Law,' Ilmarë announces boldly. 'Father said not to worry if I don't get accepted this year, but I'd like to try just to gauge the entrance exam level. I won't be going for UniBel, obviously, that's beyond my reach, but I figured, the law department in Eldamar or Tirion should be prestigious enough? And I can realistically prepare to get in, if I set my goals for next year.'

'That's a smart choice,' admits Mairon. He takes a sip of his coffee. 'I wonder, however, if you're really dismissing United Beleriand because you're not confident enough or because you don't want to leave your family now that you finally found it.'

Ilmarë thinks about it a moment, chewing purposefully on a piece of fruit. 'You know, it makes sense. I haven't considered it. Is it bad, though? That I don't want to leave them?...'

'It's understandable,' says Mairon. Of course, it's not something he would be likely to do, even in her circumstances. Family is nice, he likes his, but not to the point where he would put them above his education. But he can empathise with the sentiment. For some reason, it makes him want to call Curumo or check Aiwendil's nature photo feed on Entagram.

His breakfast arrives: deep fried fish buns with bacon and a side of fried rice. It's exactly as unhealthy as he hoped. Possibly the only vaguely healthy thing in it is a single decorative cherry tomato. It stands out like a gaping wound. The dis looks like something Melkor would happily devour.

Surprisingly – or not, considering the quality of Taniquetil's kitchen staff – it's delicious.

'Have you ever been to an aristocratic wedding before?' Ilmarë asks once Mairon digs in.

He makes a point to visibly swallow the bite in his mouth to mask the time it takes to make up the least far-fetched lie. 'Once,' he admits, 'as a paid companion.'

'Oh. How was it? Very stuffy?' Ilmarë makes a face.

Mairon laughs. 'Only at the beginning. The ceremony was stiff and boring as fuck. They recited a very long and complicated marriage vow in old Valarin, then repeated a simplified version in High Sindarin. Just that took an hour. The minister recited the Blessings of the Fourteen, another hour, and then the families of the newly-weds gave the Solemnities. All in all, it was almost four hours of boring bullshit. But the wedding itself was much better. You wouldn't believe the food they serve at weddings, it's like nothing you've ever eaten. There's also alcohol and music. Oh, and the traditional Birth of the Star at midnight is the most beautiful sight on the planet. If they do it here too, it's going to be so grand.'

He remembers it all, especially the Birth of the Star, from his parents' wedding. He was seven then, old enough to be expected to speak during the Solemnities. He doesn't recall what he said, something about the family values probably, it's not like he wrote it himself. He just remembers that whatever it was, it made Mother laugh to the point of tears. She promised later that when he got married, she'd do her best to embarrass him to the best of her ability.

Well, he's not in any danger of that soon.

'What are the Solemnities? I mean, I know what they are,' Ilmarë says, 'just, what is one expected to say?'

'Basically, what you wish the newly-weds to have aplenty in their marriage. Like sex, happiness, money, that kind of stuff, just worded more sophistically so that it sounds more like a poetry night than a wedding,' Mairon explains. 'Don't worry, it's almost never written by the family members themselves. It's ordered before the wedding from professional writers and everyone gets a piece to say. Can you imagine your brother coming up with exalted poetry?'

'Not really,' Ilmarë admits. 'Unless it's a particularly offensive piece? He likes being offensive.'

'Astonishingly, I noticed,' says Mairon drily, making Ilmarë laugh.

They both finish their breakfasts discussing the weirdest customs of Valinor. Mairon's favourite must be the Eagle Spotting in summer. During the celebrations, entire crowds gather in city squares once a year to stare at the sky and look for eagles. Spotting one means favour from the Elder King. It's particularly funny in the coastal cities of Almaren because people there are hardly capable of telling an eagle apart from a very large seagull. Ilmarë, on the other hand, is particularly fond of the autumn Festival of Trees, a week-long celebration of Laurelin and Telperion from the old legends. Nowadays, so many ages after the alleged destruction of the Trees, the Festival has little to do with them at all. Mostly, kids run around dressed as goblins or spiders and try to trick people into giving them candy. The whole celebration ends with a re-enactment of the Destruction of Trees in Eldamar: giant Laurelin and Telperion are erected in the city square and contestants dressed as Morgoth the Dark One ride horses dressed as giant spiders and try to topple the Trees. If they succeed, good, if not, the rest of the crowd is let at it until the trees are down. They're usually filled with candy, apples and gift coupons, so everybody wins.

'It's always been pretty much the only occasion when we could have as much candy as we were able to eat,' says Ilmarë with a smile. 'We had to be careful if we wanted it to last until Yule. Usually, we were left with only apples. At least the aunties knew how to preserve them. I think nothing will ever remind me of Yule as much as the taste of dried apples and milk.'

'We always had dried plums and cranberries,' Mairon reminisces, smiling as well. 'From Mother's garden. I always traded the plums away to my brothers. Not because I dislike them, but because I knew they liked the cranberries too. That way, I had a lot of cranberries left when they had nothing, so I could trade in my fruity goods for favours. And by favours I mean chocolate.'

'It seems you were rather crafty,' says Melkor who enters the dining room and yawns. 'Uh, sorry. Is there any coffee around here somewhere?'

'Take a seat, Lord Melkor, coffee and breakfast will be served shortly,' announces a cheerful serving girl with short red hair.

Melkor looks at her, frowns, then says, 'Thanks, uh, Arien?'

The girl blushes and nods happily, then saunters off. Melkor shrugs and sits heavily next to Mairon. His hair is pulled back into an incredibly messy bun, revealing enough hickeys to make anyone stare. He's incredibly attractive this morning. Mairon doesn't even mind it when Melkor kisses him firmly in greeting.

'So, Ilmarë, what's up? I heard you needed some help with Quenya?' Melkor asks a moment later, smiling at his niece as though he didn't just give her a rather embarrassing show of PDA.

Ilmarë returns the smile. 'I could use it, yes. I only know basics,' she says a bit shyly.

'Yeah, Eönwë said. The lazy bum's giving you excuses isn't he?' Melkor mutters, then sighs. 'Don't worry. I can get you started before the wedding, then I'm quite sure Varda or Manwë will pick up if Eönwë doesn't get over his laziness. Sound good?'

'Perfect. Thank you, sir!' Ilmarë says gratefully.

Melkor grimaces. 'Man, I told you! Don't you “sir” me, kid, it makes me feel old. You can call me Melkor, really, I don't bite.'

'Unlike Mairon, it seems,' Ilmarë observes.

Melkor blinks, then looks at Mairon in question. Mairon says nothing, just looks pointedly at Melkor's neck. He can tell exactly when the man realizes what they're referring to by the widening of his eyes. A soft flush appears on his skin, but he doesn't do anything to cover his marked skin. He just purses his lips in an exaggerated pout.

'Young people these days have no respect at all,' he complains to Manwë who comes into the room at that precise moment.

Manwë looks at him like he's crazy, then yawns and rubs his eyes. It's rather funny how similar his mannerisms are to his brother's when they both let their guard down.

'Do you always have to wear your sexual life on display,' Manwë says in exasperation, pointing to Melkor's neck. Even though it's worded as a question, he certainly isn't expecting an answer. He simply takes a seat next to Ilmarë and sighs as if defeated.

'Well, one could argue that yours is always on display when Eönwë and Ilmarë are around,' Melkor replies regardless.

Mairon chuckles, earning a pleased grin from his lover.

'That wasn't even funny,' complains Manwë and shakes his head, then plants it on the table and sighs again. 'Today's going to be the worst day in my life, have mercy on my poor soul.'

'What? Why?' Asks Melkor immediately.

'Are you okay, Dad?' Adds Ilmarë in a worried tone.

'Yes, yes, I'm fine, I'm fine. I just have a meeting with my chief of security. He's probably going to skin me alive or something like that,' Manwë complains.

Melkor rolls his eyes. 'You're a drama queen,' he decides and steals the remainder of Mairon's coffee. He downs it in one gulp and makes a disgusted face at the lack of sugar. 'Ugh, awful. So, brother, you're saying old man Smith is coming? I haven't seen him in years!'

'He's not old,' Manwë protests defensively, lifting his head to glare, then blushes and hides behind his face. 'I hate this...' he moans pathetically.

Melkor laughs. 'Haven't you told your wife-to-be about your torrid affair with your chief of security? The affair which almost got you disinherited? You know, the affair which didn't cause a social scandal only because Dad paid millions to contain the gossip?'

'I may have mentioned it?' Mutters Manwë. 'It's not about her being angry anyway, she doesn't care who I sleep with, it's about him! I didn't tell him I was going to get married, he found out through the staff...'

Mairon doesn't closely follow the conversation after that; he's more concerned about the bad feeling he suddenly has. Frowning, he finds his phone and excuses himself. He types in the number – his contact list is limited and the classified numbers are stored only in his memory – then initiates the call as he hides in Melkor's bedroom.

“Smith,” greets the voice in the receiver, sounding proper and professional.

Mairon almost resists the instinctual eye-roll. Almost. One day he will. 'Father,' he says. 'You know it's me, you could resist being a formal dick.'

“Watch your tongue, _its_ _me_ , or I'm telling your mother,” his father threatens. Mairon can almost hear the smirk in his voice. “Is there a problem there? You need anything?”

'Just information,' replies Mairon. 'Why in the name of the One didn't you tell me you're the chief of security for Taniquetil?'

“I'm not,” replies Aulë simply. “I'm Manwë Súlimo's personal chief of security. Taniquetil's under the feds,” he adds after a moment which had Mairon momentarily doubting his intellect.

'And you didn't think it worth mentioning? You knew what I'm working on,' Mairon complains.

“Stop whining, kid. You do your job, I do mine. We have the _no interference_ policy for something, yes?” Aulë reminds him.

'We do. Thing is, you could have mentioned you'd be coming to Taniquetil today. I only found out by accident. I also found out that you sleep with your charge, but I guess that's your business and Mother's, not mine.'

His father laughs. “Since when were you so feisty? Anyway, I wasn't going to be meeting you or anything, so what's the big deal?”

'I kinda _look like you_ , old man,' Mairon informs him unnecessarily. 'Granted, you're old and wrinkled and I'm definitely neither of these things, but you know we're similar. The eyes, the freckles, _the cheekbones_?'

“I'm pretty sure Manwë figured it out already, worry not,” Aulë says calmly. “It's still no big deal. We're estranged, remember? If anyone mentions me, just act like you hate my guts. It shouldn't be too hard for you.”

'Yes, okay, whatever,' says Mairon dismissively. 'Also, I'm dating Melkor. Thought you should know.'

There's a pause. “Isn't that part of the job?” Asks Aulë, sounding confused.

'It was,' admits Mairon, 'but now I'm dating him for real. I'm going to cancel the contracts. Actually, I'll have Curumo prepare the drafts as soon as I'm done wasting my time talking to you.'

“It's fucking risky, son,” his father warns. He sounds serious for once.

'Breaking deals with feds and gangsters or dating him?'

Aulë sighs audibly. “Both, to be honest. That man's a magnet for trouble.”

'Good thing I know how to deal with trouble,' says Mairon simply. 'Okay, gotta go. Don't kill Manwë? Melkor's fond of him.'

He doesn't wait for his father's answer before he ends the call. Then, he throws the phone on the bed and groans when it bounces and falls on the floor. What a mess it's all become! It's time he took matters into his hands if he doesn't want everything to collapse. First things first: the contracts. It's not the first time he's cancelling on a client, so it's going to be fairly easy: an official letter and the contractual fee from his side, acknowledgement by the client, end of story. He retrieves his phone (thankfully undamaged), texts Curumo with the details and, while waiting for confirmation, changes into something less informal.

Curumo calls instead of replying by text. Surprised, Mairon picks up.

'What up?'

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Curumo informs him cheerfully by way of greeting. “Now you'll get killed or worse.”

'Yeah, I miss you too,' replies Mairon, rolling his eyes. It's a normal reaction to his family's antics. It's a good thing he doesn't live with them because one day, his eyes might roll out of his skull due to exposure to these people. They're crazy, all of them. Himself included.

“Listen though. I found out some stuff. That _Pere King_ guy, he's actually affiliated with the Finwions, don't know how exactly but. Yeah. Danger danger,” says Curumo, never losing the humour in his voice. “The other guy, his name's Olórin Mithrandir and he's a fed, like you thought. Taniquetil Security Forces. I'm pretty sure they contracted you to keep the target safe and not because of a grudge, but you know, I may be wrong.”

'You're probably not,' admits Mairon. 'Now, isn't it weird that a Noldorin crime family takes an interest in the target at roughly the same time his homeland's security services decide to raise protection around him? Something's going on here,' he says thoughtfully.

“I can look into this more,” Curumo offers.

Mairon frowns. 'No, don't. It's dangerous. I mean it, bro. You're good, but these guys are better. Just tell me you didn't break into any federal databases, please?'

“You're no fun at all,” his brother complains. “They can't catch me, Mai. I'm using Finwean software against them.”

'Which is exactly what I told you not to do,' Mairon tells him irritably. 'The Palantiri aren't undetectable, they're bound to notice there's one too many sooner or later.'

“That's why I'm not using mine,” says Curumo. “I have good access to another. Don't worry! It's less dangerous than your job anyway. As long as they don't have Sunstorm working with them, I'm safe and you know it.”

Mairon grits his teeth. What a stubborn prick! But he can't help it. That's the problem with this damn family: everyone, including his Mother, is too damn smart for their own good; and high intellect always comes with an ego to match. Realistically, he knows Curumo isn't going to get caught. He's been staying connected to the internal networks of governments and criminal syndicates for years now, since he first managed to steal the code and replicate the ingenious Palantiri OS the Finwion Syndicate uses. It's a command-based system capable of bypassing any security implementations. The most incredible feature it has is an endlessly looped auto-proxy which basically makes it impossible to trace any breach back to the source. As long as the replica isn't used to hack the original Palantiri, it's basically undetectable, although Mairon isn't about to admit it to his brother.

“I'll get your contract annulments mailed tonight. Be ready for there to be a reaction, though,” Curumo warns and hangs up before Mairon replies. At least that's done. Hopefully, the repercussions will be manageable.

Having dealt with this, Mairon re-joins everyone in the dining room. Varda is there, dressed in a pretty black tunic with a star pattern and a pair of skinny jeans. She's sitting next to Melkor and, judging by the latter's expression and her laughter, she's having lots of fun teasing him about something or another.

'Save me!' Exclaims Melkor when he spots Mairon entering. 'This vile woman is besmirching my image-'

'By telling Ilmarë stories of his teenage years, yes,' admits Varda with a crooked grin.

Intrigued, Mairon takes a seat. 'Tell me more.'

Melkor groans and glares at Mairon. 'Traitor,' he accuses.

'Can't help it,' Mairon replies innocently. 'You never tell me about your adventures when you were young.'

'He was outrageous,' Varda supplies helpfully. 'I was just saying how he came to school wearing high heels and a mini dress once-'

'I lost a bet!' Melkor interjects.

'-claiming he lost a bet, but the truth was, he just wanted the attention,' Varda finishes, ignoring Melkor's interruption.

Manwë laughs. His spirits is significantly lifted from when Mairon saw him moments before. 'Yes, I remember. It was a stupid bet, too. What was it? You had to seduce a teacher?'

'No, you overgrown pigeon, not seduce! I swear, your brain is filled with clouds for memory,' Melkor mutters viciously, but it's rather half-hearted. 'I had to trick the maths teacher. It was about a test which I didn't take, you had me attempt to convince her I already took it. I only failed because I claimed I got an A. I never got an A in maths in my life,' he sighs wistfully.

Manwë nods, remembering. 'Yes, and the punishment for losing was to wear high heels for a day. But I specifically told you to do it on a weekend, you were the one who stubbornly carried it out on the next day. I think Tulkas swooned when he saw you.'

'He totally did,' Varda says cheerfully. 'I think he walked around with a boner for the entire day,' she adds in a scenic whisper.

Melkor turns to glare at her. 'I hate you,' he informs coldly.

'Yes, I know,' says Varda and shakes her head. 'I've been wondering... Did you two ever do the do?'

'No!' Melkor denies vehemently. 'Void! He was my best friend, how many times do I have to say it?'

Mairon laughs with the others, but to be honest, he stopped listening after a while. He has a lot of thinking to do. Fact: two clients, two opposing sides of the law, same time. Something must have happened to cause them to act at precisely the same moment. Another fact: Melkor is in Taniquetil for his brother's wedding, which is about as predictable as the change of seasons.

If Olórin Mithrandir was sent by the TSF like Curumo claims – and he has no doubt it's true – then it's very likely the operation was at least approved if not conceived by Manwë Súlimo. In that case, has Manwë been aware of Mairon's identity for the entire time or is he oblivious to the truth? Using an alias helped, but if the information Mairon gathered for his clients reached Manwë, he could easily determine its source. Of course, Mairon didn't include a single detail pointing to himself or his role in the reports, but it wouldn't be difficult to deduce that the only stranger with close ties to Melkor currently is one Mairon Aulendil. But nothing in Manwë's behaviour seems to point to him knowing. Does he, or is the operation carried out in conspiracy? Or, unlikely as it appears, maybe he doesn't care who Mairon is as long as he does his job. In that case, he's not going to be pleased when Mairon backs out of the contract, regardless of his reasons for hiring him in the first place.

Speaking of which, the Finwions: the organization so notorious and dangerous even the VIA didn't want to cross them. Why their sudden interest in a famous, yet somewhat forgotten music composer? As far as Mairon knows, there's literally nothing connecting Melkor to a Noldorin crime syndicate. Or is there? Does he owe them money? Unlikely. His music earned him enough to live off comfortably for years and even if it didn't, Melkor's old money. He was disinherited, true, but apparently as soon as Manwë came into his inheritance, he reinstated Melkor's position as a Lord of Valinor and gave him access to the family fortune. So debts aren't exactly a plausible reason for the Finwions to be interested. What, then? And what will  _they_ do when they find out about Mairon's deflection?

It's frustrating to be oblivious, Mairon decides. He needs to find out more. There's bound to be some answers _somewhere_. He's going to have to ask around and it's going to be a big headache. But he got into his mess by endangering Melkor. He has to figure it all out to keep his lover safe now. And he'll have to confess. There's literally no other way to make sure Melkor has an idea of what's going on.

Fuck. It's going to be an awfully busy couple of days.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Coming next on The Sonata of Flames:  
> Confessions, accusations, broken engagements, mended engagements, breakups, make-ups, unhappy criminals, happy threesomes and a lot of Unfairly Good Looks courtesy of Melkor.   
> Stay tuned!


End file.
